dry hops and pub crawls
I fully believe we are entering a new era of personal responsibility, and as such I am personally holding Matt fully responsible for the aimlessly frantic and disconnected state that serves me as a hangover on Friday morning. I should have known he had nothing but mischief in mind when he innocuously twittered something along the lines of “got my tickets to Portland”, leading me to email him something along the lines of “good god man, do you realize that there are something like 5,000 different types of beer in this city? we’re really going to have to get to work if we’re going get to them all. I’ll start clearing my calendar.”
Thursdays are as good a night for a lesser bender as any other day of the week, because who has to work that hard on a Friday anyway? So we went from bar to bar, sampling hand-crafted ales and cask-aged porters and chipotle-infused drinks that seemed so wrong and so right, and although I didn’t keep track of how many pints we downed altogether, with an average alcohol contents of 7.5% I think it was the equivalent of 17 High Life Tallboys or around 200 kilometers if you converted to metric. Though we tried for enough terminal gravity to start diverting eastbound flights back ’round to the north, an experimental IPA stripped us of our super powers and started the room spinning. So we called a time-out, with an agreement to pick up where we left off on Saturday night, the details of which are chronicled elsewhere.
He flew back to the midwest this morning but the damage has been done, because I have any number of tantalizing and terrible ideas in my head now that involve biking over several mountain ranges. I guess I’d better hurry up and buy a tent.
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